Bashful Glances Taking Chances
by Morning Dew
Summary: Why should she brighten her face with peach smudge, line her eyes with corpse-like obsidian, and then go stand on street corners trying to catch the fancies of men who paid lofty prices for a bed ride? Why wasn't it possible for someone to love her for he


DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately I don't own Spot Conlon, but I'm putting in my request for my own model so don't worry! Grins Tiggey owns herself. And I own the wonderful Runner Conlon and Dewey.

A.N: This is a one-shot as a belated birthday present for Cici. Happy birthday, doll, and I hope you enjoy the story!

_**Bashful Glances Taking Chances **_

Elizabeth Connelly fell unto the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House just two summers after the strike, when borough nationalism was at its highest and each individual a thread of patriotic bravery in the larger quilt of dreams and won victories. They took her as their own simply because she _was _their own. A low class doll with no future and not much of a past, she was the typical hopeless youth bound to never rise beyond status quo. But hell did she have a smile. Few could withstand its charm, and ever fewer could remain upset when struck by the sweet radiation of her lengthened lips. They were pink and smooth and void of any flaws, like the scarlet lines of paint dabbed onto a china doll's face to represent those expressions only humans could exemplify.

Her personality was even more beautiful. Because of her excessive amounts of energy and optimism, they came to call her Tiggey. No one quite knew from where the alias had derived, but no one quite questioned it either. It just fit for some reason, and that was more than the lot of them could say concerning their own names. Tiggey loved to laugh, for it was relatively rare to see her in anything but a good mood. Always singing, always joking, always bouncing this way and that within the lodging house, she was always of good spirits and never in spiteful moods. In fact, she terribly despised altercations to the most extreme of degrees, avoiding them at all costs and striving to prevent or end them when time called for such.

For the most part, the other girls of the Brooklyn brigade slandered her with rude tongues. Sure, she was easy on the eyes perhaps – with beautiful midnight black locks cascading to her shoulders and deep green eyes that glistened like emerald limestone under the surface of shallow water – but her pacifist ways and her seemingly endless supply of pure happiness annoyed them to no end. They attributed this 'immaturity' to her only being fifteen years of age, and snickered their insults every chance they got if only to break her spirits.

"She doesn't even bother to polish 'erself up in the mornin'," the matriarch of the group once commented, batting her eyelashes like an over-experienced whore, applying loads of rouge upon her swollen lips.

"And ya ever notice how she only hangs with the lil' ones most the time?"

The elder snorted. "Pro'bly cause she can't get any from no one else." They all exploded into boisterous laughter, a horribly raspy and high-pitched cacophony that echoed the screeching mews of a starving cat.

They were correct, and they were also foolishly wrong at the same time. Tiggey didn't bother to 'doll herself up' as did the others because simply she saw no reason to. Why should she enslave herself to the expectations of their dirt-level rankings? Why should she brighten her face with ridiculous amounts of peach smudge and line her eyes with corpse-like obsidian, and then go stand on street corners trying to catch the fancies of forty-year old men who paid lofty prices for a bed ride or two? Why wasn't it possible for someone to love not her decaying ephemeral shell but the undying soul within? She discovered one day, though, that indeed it _was _possible. The love of children was unconditional and nonjudgmental, and _that _was why she was constantly in their company.

Besides, she didn't need a man in her life to secure her. Unlike the brainless broads she lived with in Brooklyn, she didn't need to anchor herself to a safe harbor as to not be blown away by the winds of drudgeries and letdown's.

"Aren't ya goin' with someone to Medda's, Tig?" Dewey collected one of the younger newsies named Neeko into her arms and placed him on her lap to comb his hair. "Ya not stayin' here the whole night, are ya?"

Tiggey folded her legs as she sat atop her bunk and continued drumming her hand on the upturned box aside her, making music for the little ones to clap their hands or dance to. The ever present shine in her green eyes slowly faded away, replaced by a certain sadness. Dewey was her closet friend, but even she would not deny the girl's uncommon solitude or loneliness. "I rather just stay. I'm not that much into parties anyhow, ya know that."

"Oh come on, ya always stay whenever we 'ave somethin' like this goin' on. For once, ya should at least give it a try, doll. Ya never know, ya might end up actually likin' it more than ya thought ya would."

"That's easy for youse to say, Dewey. Ya goin' out with Brooklyn's very leader! It's not like ya 'ave to meet any expectations. People don't mess with ya cause they know they'd deal with Spot afterward." Tiggey frowned deeply and slowed down the pace of her incessant drumming. "But people like me...why, I'd be the laughin' stock of all the newsies at Irvin' Hall."

The other placed a hand on her friend's arm and offered a warm and inviting smile. "And since when did youse care 'bout what others thought of ya?" Her mane of brown curls framed her face in such a delicate manner that one couldn't help but take her advice readily. Divergent from the widespread understanding that dating Spot in essence made her like him, she was in fact of pleasant demeanor, soft-spoken and abundantly amicable.

"It's settled," Dewey said with a nod and slight smirk. "Ya goin' tonight whether ya like it or not."

When Dewey said something in the serious, she hardly ever backed down on her promises, which is why it wasn't too surprising to find the girls in Spot's private bedroom that evening, tidying up for the big event only hours away.

"Ya look absolutely fine, love!" Dewey tried to assure her friend. She, herself, donned a simple ankle-length corduroy skirt, lavender peasant blouse, and a beige derby hat affixed upon her loose chocolate ringlets. Contrary to popular belief, parties at Irving Hall didn't feature newsgirls decked out in their finest attire, with aristocratic gowns and stilettos, and hair done up in European fashions. Most the time, the paper peddlers of Manhattan and Brooklyn simply went in whatever rags they had worn during the day; they were of the same kin, there was no need to impress each other.

Tiggey frowned at her reflection in the mirror, a bit appalled at how much she resembled the other girls in the lodging house. She hadn't even known how soft and long her locks of hair were, for she'd always worn it tied back, giving it little attention whatsoever. But seeing it loose about her face brought out a light in her irises she'd never known, and gave her cheeks a natural blush that toned out her complexion in a genuine beauty. She wore a floor-touching grey skirt with raggedy ends and loose threads and a button-down plaid shirt one of the boys had given her when first she became a newsie and had few clothes. Just one's ordinary every day street-mouse, and she looked all the lovelier because of it.

The party at Irving Hall was scheduled to begin promptly at seven in the evening, but this was just another manner in conveying it wouldn't commence until two hours beyond this time. Newsies from all five boroughs meandered through the entrance of the theatre in ragtag assemblies, reclining onto the chairs arranged around the circular tables built for eight with the utmost slipshod demeanors. For the most part, the majority of them were spent from a long day's work and wanted in the least to socialize or move about like hyperactive children.

"See anyone who catches ya fancy?" Dewey asked with an elbow nudge to her friend's side.

Tiggey forced a smile onto her face. "Not really. And I'm sure that even if I did, he wouldn't necessarily return the feelings." This wasn't a spiritual dampening at all, though, for she maintained a fierce independence and couldn't have cared less. She never had a boyfriend and was very well content with that fact. She didn't need one and most definitely didn't want one.

"Ya know, Dewey, youse can go ahead and dance with Spot if ya want. I think 'e headed for the Manhattan table or somethin'. Ya don't have to stay with me; I'll be fine sittin' here by myself."

"Oh, don't worry bout it. I still 'ave plenty of hours in the night to be with 'im. I'm actually waitin' for a friend of mine to show up. He was supposed to be here a long while ago; go figure. I think all men is built with a lack of time management skills." She chuckled at this and ironed out the wrinkles in her blouse with her palms. But it hadn't been ten seconds into her show of mirth before she felt soft cold fingers placed over her eyes and a pair of lips lower beside her ear from which was emitted warm breath.

"Insultin' the male gender on account of me, Dewey?"

"Runner Conlon, get ya dirty ink-smudged hands off me!"

The boy in question snickered and showed himself, walking around her and plopping down onto the seat between Dewey and Tiggey. He resembled Spot incredibly closely, as they were cousins, but all the same secured his own individuality and characteristics. His features were sharper and more evident, rough golden locks falling carelessly past his enlivened pastel green eyes. He was shorter too, but his stature yet preserved the infamous Brooklyn pride and strength, and in his sheer air rested an entire ammunition of laughter, pranks, and jokes. So mischievous was he!

"Sorry I'm so late; I had a few things to take care of." He winked with a merry grin and then regarded Tiggey. His cordiality was unmistakable. Though most young men would've simply carried along discourse with only those they knew, he made it a point to include Tiggey in the conversation as well, not wishing at all to exclude her. "Hi, I'm Spot's cousin, Runner. Youse must be Dewey's best friend." He held out his hand to her, void of spit, in sign of greeting.

Tiggey was somewhat surprised and confused at the same time, mostly because Spot had always given off the sense of being a lonely wandering orphan. "Yea, that's me," she replied with a bashful smile. This boy was too gorgeous for his own good! He had the spellbinding eyes of a midnight moor cat, who gazed upon one with means to enchant. "It's nice to meet ya. Spot's the last person ya'd think to 'ave any family."

Runner laughed and nodded his support. "Yea, I don't blame 'im. I don't exactly give 'im reason to be proud of me. He's always been wantin' me to come live with 'im in Brooklyn, but silly me, I actually thought stayin' in school was more important." There was obviously a strain of tension apparent when he voiced his opinions on the subject, but he shrugged it off to give off the facade of being fine, and reclined back against his chair.

"Well," said Dewey, arising from her chair gracefully and giving Runner a look that very well said without words he better behave himself, "I better catch up with Spot. I'll leave youse to get better acquainted." Her smile wider than ever, she then left.

It was certainly a most uncomfortable ambient for the two left behind, however. Runner had come to Irving Hall that evening simply by request of Dewey, who believed he and Tiggey could perhaps hit it off and become good friends. They were both loners, after all. Ever since Spot had banished his younger cousin from Brooklyn, Runner really didn't have that much of a social life. He'd merely go about his day scenario by scenario, like an ever-wandering and fading ghost appointed the travesty of severing attachments with the world he had always known. It didn't bother him terribly as one might've presupposed, though. He was rather used to it after so long, but was pained upon seeing another innocent soul walk down the path he'd been forced to traverse.

He decided to take the initiative in starting any dialogue. "So ya like livin' in Brooklyn? It doesn't seem to have rubbed off on ya any." And it really didn't. After years of living in the underworld of New York, most youth underwent a drastic deconstruction that saw them from purity to tainted individuals with eyes wide open to failure, crime, and injustice. But as much as this girl conveyed...why, true she was somewhat scruffy looking, apparently not a polished debutante of society...and yet, there was no malice within her heart.

"It's not too bad. It's more than some people 'ave, at least. The people could be friendlier, though." She subconsciously tugged on a strand of her hair as her eyes darted through the crowds to locate the female cliché she could barely stand. "Sometimes, I just get the feelin' I'm the only one in a room, even if it's filled with dozens of people." She didn't know why she was being so open with him, but his altruistic kindness seemed to gently pull the answers from her effortlessly.

"I know what ya mean. It's rare to find someone who's on the same page with ya. It's as if ya speakin' two different languages and everyone thinks youse crazy just cause they can't understand a word ya sayin'."

She nodded. "They never get where ya comin' from and don't even bother to _try_ and understand. They'll just badger ya 'bout it."

"Or exile youse cause of it."

"Without ever tryin' to make friends, or tryin' to make ya feel like ya fit in. It's like a stupid popularity contest day in and day out."

"And you'd be lucky if even one person was on ya side," he said wistfully. He cocked his head to one side as his gaze became distant and contemplative.

"And worst of all..."

"...sometimes you just feel so..."

There was a momentary silence before they uttered in unison: "Alone." When the word had escaped both their lips, they instantly glanced at each other, first in surprise and afterward in sheer bashfulness.

Runner opened his mouth to speak, but soon realized his throat was dry. After getting past the embarrassment of having to clear it to produce speech, he addressed her again. What the hell, he'd take a chance. What was there to lose? "Hey, would ya possibly like to ditch this joint and maybe have some hot chocolate at that one café downtown?" He smiled at her warmly, letting her know it was her choice and that whatever she decided upon was completely fine.

Tiggey laughed lightly and reached for his hand as she stood up. "Well then, what are we waitin' for? Let these kids have their dance. I've a feelin' we're not going to regret it." They grinned at each other and started off down a new road in life.


End file.
